


Trains Run on Time

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Character of Color, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roberto rolls his eyes and pushes his chair back, so he isn't sitting in front of Mario's crotch. Mario's been like this, more or less, since the move to Manchester, looking, Roberto assumes, for some kind of reaction to mock, a reaction Roberto doesn't intend to give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trains Run on Time

**Author's Note:**

> this story contains D/s elements as well as discussions of racism, just fyi.

Mario leans against Roberto’s door frame. “Knock, knock,” he says, one ear bud still in. Roberto can hear the dull thrum of the baseline of whatever song he’s listening to from across the room.

“Come in and shut the door,” Roberto tells him. Mario complies with a flash of a white smile. To make up for doing what Roberto tells him, he walks around Roberto’s desk, ignoring the perfectly good chair, moves Roberto’s laptop with exaggerated care, and sits directly in front of Roberto. He puts his arms behind him and grips the far edge of the desk, leans back so the muscles in his arms tense with holding the weight of his upper body. His legs are spread.

Roberto rolls his eyes and pushes his chair back, so he isn’t sitting in front of Mario’s crotch.

“Have you been watching porn again?” Roberto asks.

Mario gives him another grin, probably one he imagines to be lazy and suggestive. His eyes are alert though, intent on Roberto’s face, nervous behind their feigned unconcern. “You did say you wanted to talk to me alone,” he says, drawing out the word. “What was I supposed to assume?”

Roberto runs a hand through his hair. “Mario. We need to talk about these cards. You can’t -”

“Let people provoke me, I know, I’ve heard this before,” Mario says, his voice easy and mocking. “What are you going to do to make the lesson stick, _boss_?”

Roberto stands and rests a hand high on Mario’s leg. He feels Mario’s muscles tense, and his moves his thumb in slow circles around the inseam of Mario’s track pants. “Nothing,” he says, pulling out Mario’s earbud with his other hand, careful that his fingers brush slightly against Mario’s jawline. “I am going to do nothing. You’re the only one who can decide to control yourself.”

“Kinky, I like it,” Mario says. “Can our safe word be Jose Mourinho? I feel like that’s a good boner killer for you.” 

Roberto is bone tired, and Mario won’t listen, glib, unapologetic, willfully ignorant. Roberto’s temper flares and he forgets to fight it, grips Mario’s thigh, hard. Hard enough that if he sustained it there would be bruises in the shapes of his fingers there tomorrow, high on Mario’s inner thigh, to match the ones on his legs from the hard tackles. His other hand settles on Mario’s pulse, not quite gentle, his anger softening and shifting. Mario makes a cut-off noise. Roberto lets go and steps back, shaking his head, disgusted with himself. Mario is staring at him, wide-eyed, his mouth open. Roberto realizes his hands are shaking, he can’t meet Mario’s eyes, and he’s trying to find words when -

“I was joking. Before. I was.” Mario stands up from the desk, close enough that Roberto can smell his cologne. “Boss,” he says, and it sounds significant and desperate in ways Roberto cannot allow.

Roberto looks up. “I’m sorry. I should have been able to-” to control myself, is on the tip of his tongue. He shakes his head slightly and makes himself stand straight. “That was unacceptable and it won’t happen again.”

For a moment Mario stands, quiet. He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, puts on a smirk. “At least I didn’t sexually harass anyone,” he says, and his voice is almost steady enough to pull it off.

“You’re better than this,” Roberto tells him, and he doesn’t know if he means the sending off or not. He runs a hand over his eyes, trying to pull himself together, do his job. “Go home, come to practice early tomorrow. You know what you owe to the team, you can apologize to them tomorrow.”

Mario stays where he is.

“Was I not clear?” Roberto asks. “Go. Think about what you’ve done and what you need to do.”

Mario gives a lazy salute. “Yes, sir.” He puts his earbud back in, raises an eyebrow at Roberto. “See you tomorrow.” Roberto pulls his chair back up to his desk, sits down, but Mario’s paused at the door.

“I’m sorry, boss,” he says, so quiet Roberto thinks he might have imagined it. Then he’s gone, and Roberto can rest his head in his hands and let his self-disgust loose. 

\--

After the Blackburn game, Mario and Roberto meet at the airport. They’re flying to Italy on the same flight; Mario for international duty and Roberto to spend the break in Milan. They board the plane, Mario dressed in track pants and a hoodie, his iPad under one arm. Roberto hasn’t changed since the game, and he puts his coat and scarf in the overhead bin. The stewardess offers them both something to drink, and Roberto orders water for both of them. The win has relaxed Roberto, dangerously, and Mario is grinning as he asks for some ice for his knee.

“Good game, huh, boss?” Mario says.

“It was fine,” Roberto says, but he’s smiling. 

“Sure, sure, fine like I am, boss,” Mario laughs at his own joke and rests a hand on Roberto’s knee, gentle. Roberto stiffens and Mario draws back.

The stewardess gives Mario a bag of ice, and Mario rests it on his knee. The passengers are done filing onto the plane, and the safety demonstration begins.

“Not into joining the Mile High Club, boss?” Mario asks. He’s on the edge of his seat, leaning so that his arm is flush to Roberto’s from elbow to shoulder, pressing hot through Roberto’s thin dress shirt. “That’s fine.”

“Mario,” Roberto says, his voice low, “stop.” He moves his hand so he can grip Mario’s wrist, keep him immobilized. 

“What?” Mario asks. “I thought before you were just angry.”

“I was,” Roberto says. He rubs his thumb over the tendons in Mario’s wrist, once, then again, pressing harder. Mario makes a soft noise and Roberto releases him, squeezes his hand into a fist.

“Do you want me to beg?” Mario asks.

“No,” Roberto says, furious mostly with himself, his gut clenching. 

Mario raises an eyebrow. “You sure, boss?”

“Mario,” Roberto says, as the cabin lights dim and the plane begins to taxi, “I am never going to.” He stops - he doesn’t know what to say. Touch you like that again, fuck you in an airplane bathroom, on his desk, in a Milan hotel room. “Be that unprofessional,” Roberto finishes.

“Oh,” Mario says, quietly, and Roberto fights the urge to apologize. “Right, boss.” He puts his headphones in.

“You can’t do that until we’re at cruising altitude,” Roberto says, but Mario’s music must be too loud to hear him. 

\--

Roberto comes into work early. The office is still quiet - no one else has come in yet. He turns on one of the tvs in the corner, but leaves it muted. He makes himself coffee while he waits, finds a bottle of aspirin in one of the kitchen cupboards and swallows two of them with the last of his cup.

The door opens and Mario comes in.

“I thought you’d be here, boss,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “I wanted to make sure I was on time for the meeting.”

“Why?” Roberto asks.

“Why am I here early? Well, there’s a smoking hole in the wall of my house so I didn’t really want to stick around there and watch cartoons and visiting hours at the women’s prison don’t start until noon.”

“Why is it always you, Mario?” Roberto asks. 

“It’s sometimes Tevez,” Mario points out, sitting across from him. “Anyway, it wasn’t me, it was some drunk asshole who was trying to light fireworks in my shower.” He looks down at his hands and Roberto can tell he’s exhausted. “Boss. It wasn’t me, I swear.”

“I believe you, Mario.” Roberto runs a hand through his hair. “But you have to think about how these things appear.”

“Why should I?” Mario asks. “Why should I give a fuck what people think?” He meets Roberto’s eyes. “You seriously thought I set off a firework in my fucking bathroom?”

“I get a call in the middle of the night saying there’s been an explosion at your house,” Roberto says, “I didn’t know what to think. You could have been injured, you could have been - Jesus, Mario. You have to stop this.”

“Why should I care? Look, I’m sorry I freaked you out, boss, but I don’t give a shit about whoever else.” Mario stands, pushing his chair back so hard to clatters to the floor. He rights it. 

“And you’re going to tell the fans that the day before we play United?”

Mario snorts. “Doesn’t change how I play.” 

“Ask Wayne Rooney if what you do off the pitch affects what happens on the pitch.” Roberto folds his arms and watches him.

“Ask Samuel Eto’o if people give a fuck what you do off the pitch.”

Roberto pauses, and watches Mario pace in front of him. 

“It’s like Mussolini,” Mario says, after a while. 

“What?” Roberto asks.

“Mussolini,” Mario says. “You know they always say like, ‘Yeah he was a crazy facist, but at least he made the trains run on time?’”

Roberto waits. If Mario has a point he’ll make it.

“They must say that about you,” Mario continues, “at the _Federcalcio_. ‘Too bad he’s wasting his time on that black fucker, but at least he makes him train on time.’”

“Mario,” Roberto says, tightly. 

“So I guess I’m just saying,” Mario stops at the door, “I’m going to do whatever the fucking fuck I want, and people are going to see what they want and say what they want. And who knows, maybe it’ll even be something new.” 

“Mario,” Roberto says, standing, “Mario, I’m sorry.”

Mario laughs humorlessly. “Don’t worry, boss, I’ll go out and score ten goals tomorrow and none of this will matter, right?”

Any reply Roberto could make seems insufficient. He pulls Mario into a one-armed hug, the kind he would give him on the pitch, the kind he will give him after he wins the league, Euros, the World Cup one day. Mario wraps both his arms around him.

“It matters to me,” Roberto says, into Mario’s ear. “It matters to me, Mario.” Mario gives a shuddering breath, and Roberto brings up his other arm and rubs his back. Mario’s shoulder blades are angular, pressing up against Roberto’s hands like vestigial wings. His shoulders are shaking. “It matters to me,” he repeats and repeats, rubbing Mario’s back until he gets himself back under control.

Mario steps back, wipes his eyes. “Don’t forget, we have a meeting with the press office in half an hour,” Roberto says, stepping out into the corridor. 

\--

Roberto’s startled awake. At first, he thinks his alarm has gone off, but his room is still dark, and when he looks at his clock, he sees it’s 1:48 am. 

His doorbell rings, again and again, so Roberto gets out of bed, grabs a grey sweater out of his laundry hamper - his house is cold at night. He pulls it on and heads downstairs. He’s sleep-muddled still, missing the solitary comfort of his own bed, hoping his son doesn’t wake up.

The doorbell keeps ringing, faster and faster. Roberto looks through the peephole to make sure it’s not someone crazy. 

Mario’s standing at his door in track pants and a thin t-shirt with something absurd written on it. The cold is raising goosebumps on his arms. His hands are in his pockets, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Roberto unlocks and opens the door.

“Are you ok? What happened?” Roberto asks, concern making his chest tight, forcing his exhaustion back. 

Mario nods, then shakes his head. “There are a lot of people at the hotel” he says, each word so precise Roberto knows he’s drunk and trying to hide it. “I. I couldn’t. I was done partying, so I left.” 

“Instead of asking them to leave,” Roberto says.

“Lots of them, only one of me,” Mario says, running a hand over his head. “Seemed easier, boss.” He gives Roberto a rueful smile. 

“Of course it did,” Roberto says. “Come in, then.” Mario does, tripping over the door frame. 

Roberto puts a hand on the small of his back and presses him towards the kitchen, without turning the lights on. He can feel Mario’s muscles tense, but he mercifully doesn’t say anything and lets himself be directed through the house without tripping over anything.

When they get to the kitchen, Roberto turns on the light and shuts the door. Mario stands at the counter, hands in his pockets. Roberto gets Mario a glass of water, to give himself something to do while he collects himself.

“You do realize there was a curfew tonight,” Roberto says, giving Mario the glass. Mario takes a long drink and Roberto watches his throat work for a moment too long. “You think I make these rules for fun? This is serious. I am serious. What do I need to say to make it clear to you that your behavior is unacceptable?” He’s yelling now, and Mario is looking at his feet.

“What are you going to do?” Mario asks, after a long pause.

“I don’t know,” Roberto says, pacing around the counter. “If my son behaved like this, he would never leave this house without my permission. But you are not my son.”

Mario laughs. “No, I’m not.” He’s looking at Roberto now.

“Mario,” Roberto says, glaring at him from across the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, “don’t do this.” 

“Or what, you’ll lock me in my room? Call my mother in Italy? Fine me?”

“Don’t make me regret putting my faith in you,” Roberto says, his voice rising again. “Mario, I am not going to let yourself throw away your career just because you can. And I am not going to ruin your -”

“Ruin my what?” Mario asks, his voice level. “My reputation? Boss, this is not a fucking romance novel.” He comes around the counter and touches Roberto’s arm, gently and momentarily. 

Roberto doesn’t pull back. “Mario, it’s two in the morning, and you’re drunk and you came here.” He stops. “Why did you come here?”

“I told you, boss,” Mario says. “Big party.”

Roberto waits. Mario watches him, and the house is silent. Mario looks down and fiddles with his hands. He looks up and his eyes are liquid. “I. Boss. At the party I just. I really needed to see someone who didn’t think I was just another - ” Roberto’s heart is in his throat, he wants Mario to stop talking, he wants Mario to keep talking, he reaches out and puts his hand on Mario’s shoulder. Mario tenses again, and Roberto rubs his thumb along the line of Mario’s collarbone.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Mario says, quietly, tilting his head so that his cheek brushes against the backs of Roberto’s knuckles. 

Roberto draws him forward. “No.”

Mario licks his lips. “Please?” Roberto puts his other hand on Mario’s shoulder and holds him in place, feels the heat radiating off his body.

“I can’t.”

Mario sneaks a look down. “I think there are drugs for that, boss.”

Roberto rolls his eyes and Mario leans forward and kisses him, pushes himself up against Roberto, his mouth soft, offering himself up. Roberto pulls back before it’s too late. 

“Mario, there’s a guest bedroom down the hall. We can talk in the morning, ok?”

Mario goes, leaving Roberto sitting in his empty kitchen, quietly, waiting for the sun to rise. In the morning, Mario drinks black coffee and gives Andrea a crocked smile before he walks to the door. Roberto follows him, trying to think of a way to say - I worry there are too many ways to hurt you already, you play for me, you’re my responsibility, I shouldn’t want this from you, I’m sorry - 

“Got to make it to practice early, boss,” Mario says, softly. He winks and gives Roberto a kiss on the cheek. Then he’s gone.

\--

Mario manages to behave himself for almost two weeks after that, comes to practice on time, works. He laughs often, his head thrown back, across the pitch from Roberto, and Roberto does not let his eyes rest on Mario’s exposed throat. During team talks, Mario sits upright, doesn’t stretch his legs out and let his shirt ride up, exposing his stomach. His eyes don’t linger on Roberto when he takes long, slow drinks from his water bottle. He is as close to a model professional as Roberto has seen him. 

The day before the Chelsea game, Roberto goes into work early, meaning to review some tape. One of the men from the legal department, Roberto thinks his name might be John, is waiting outside his office. 

“Can I help you?” Roberto asks.

“Mr. Mancini,” the man says, “can we talk in your office?”

“Of course,” Roberto says, unlocking his door. “Remind me of your name again?”

“James Leland,” he says, “the legal director.”

“Of course,” Roberto says, shutting the door behind them. “Is this about Tevez’s contract?” 

“No, no,” Leland says, wiping his hands on his trousers. “This is about Balotelli.”

“Oh,” Roberto says, his stomach dropping. “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Leland?”

“Last night, he was out after curfew,” Leland says, and Roberto relaxes minutely.

“I can talk to him about that,” Roberto says, “trust me, breaking curfew is not a real concern with Mario.”

“No, no,” Leland continues, looking pained. “He was out, after curfew in a restaurant downtown. With a man who.” Leland shakes his head. “Who I have reason to believe is a prostitute.” 

Roberto stands and begins to pace. He can’t stop himself, his heart beating arrhythmically, his palms sweating. He wants to scream.

“Who else knows?” he asks. 

“You, me and Balotelli,” Leland says. “Someone from the press office contacted me to ask if we would be taking disciplinary measures after Balotelli was caught out. I called him to speak with him about it, and he. He volunteered the information to me. I believe I convinced him not to tell anyone else, on the condition I would be the one to tell you.”

“No one else is going to know,” Roberto says, and he realizes it’s a threat. “Not the ownership, not anyone else in legal, no one.”

Leland nods. “Yes, Mr. Mancini.” He takes a breath. “Balotelli gave me reason to believe the press interrupted them before any...he is not in violation, as far as I can determine, of the Policing and Crime Act, so in this instance, there should be no legal trouble. But you should caution him in the strongest possible terms about this.”

“Believe me, I will,” Roberto says. 

Leland rises. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Mancini,” he says. “Good luck with Chelsea tomorrow.” 

Roberto nods, thanks him absently, his mind already on Mario. 

During practice, Mario gave Roberto a wide berth, until Roberto calls him over as practice is ending. “Come to my house after practice,” he says, his hand gripping Mario’s shoulder. “We need to talk somewhere where we won’t be overheard.” He’s been fighting to keep control of himself all practice, keep focused. Thinking about Mario with another man, Mario’s ankles locked around his back, sweating like he does after practice, will get him nowhere.

Mario raises an eyebrow. “Oh, boss, am I in trouble?”

Roberto pulls him closer, furious. “We are not discussing this here. Do you want to ruin your career?”

Mario bites his lower lip and steps back from Roberto. “Haven’t decided yet,” he says, smirking. “See you later, boss.”

For all that, Mario’s waiting outside Roberto’s house when he gets home, sitting on the front step.

“Inside,” Roberto says, stepping past Mario. Mario follows.

“Boss,” Mario says, when the door is shut. 

“I don’t want to hear anything that isn’t an apology, Mario,” Roberto says, “not a single thing.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Mario says. Roberto stops, turned on and angrier than before. 

“You broke curfew and took a risk that would destroy your career, not to mention a risk to your own safety and you - you,” Roberto is speechless with anger, with jealousy, with emotions he won’t let himself name.

“Nothing happened,” Mario says. He’s meeting Roberto’s eyes, but his shoulders are slumped, fearless and vulnerable. “But if you don’t want me, I’m going to find someone who will.” 

“Mario I do -,” Roberto makes himself stop. “That isn’t healthy.” 

“Why do you care?” Mario asks. “You say you just want me to be another one of your players, but do you do this with Agüero? So fuck you, boss.”

“Mario,” Roberto says, desperate, “I’m your manager.”

“Yeah boss, I’m aware,” Mario says, his voice harsh. “And you think I’m the next Roberto Baggio. But I don’t see the problem. Is this going to make me play worse?” 

“That’s not all that matters,” Roberto says, but he can’t take his eyes off Mario, his crossed arms and narrowed eyes. “Mario, I want you to be happy.”

“Well, I’m not,” Mario says. “I’ll pay my fine and take extra practices, and you can leave me alone, boss.” His voice hitches.

Roberto puts a hand out, touches Mario’s cheek before he can stop himself. Mario shivers and shuts his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, they’re wide, dark, his pupils huge.

“Boss, you better...”

“Upstairs,” Roberto says, around the sudden constriction in his chest. “Upstairs now.” Mario nods and leads the way and Roberto follows, his hand on the back of Mario’s neck, his palms sweaty. When they get to his bedroom, Roberto shuts the door behind them both.

He walks Mario backward until he’s pressed up against the wall, his arms at his side. He brackets Mario’s face with his hands, careful. He runs one hand down Mario’s neck so he can watch him swallow, feel the muscles in his neck shift. His fingers rest in the hollow between Mario’s collar bones, half under Mario’s shirt, and he moves them, feeling how thinly Mario’s skin lies over his bones. His other hand stays on Mario’s cheek, and Mario turns his head into the contact, presses his closed mouth to the heel of Roberto’s hand. He meets Roberto’s eyes, and he’s smiling, unguarded and unconcerned. Roberto presses his thigh between Mario’s legs and Mario’s mouth goes slack, his eyelids flutter. 

“Moral of the story is I should solicit prostitutes more often,” Mario says, probably joking.

Roberto swifts his thigh, rubbing it against Mario. He thinks about wrapping his hands gently around Mario’s neck, and it scares him. There’s heat rising fast within him, anger and pride and fear and uncontainable affection, all mixed together and all for Mario. 

“Not if you want me to touch you again,” Roberto says, then he grazes his teeth against Mario’s neck. Mario arches against his thigh. “That was a stupid,” he nuzzles the inside of Mario’s neck, “dangerous,” nips at his earlobe, “unnecessary risk,” he whispers into Mario’s ear, his lips brushing it. Mario shudders. 

“Yes, boss,” Mario says, his hips moving constantly against Roberto now, like he’s unable to stop himself. 

“You know, you can call me by my name,” Roberto says, his hands making their way under Mario’s shirt to count the notches of his ribs. “This is a fairly informal setting.”

Mario gasps when Roberto moves his thigh and presses his erection against Mario’s. “I.” Mario shuts his eyes and Roberto kisses along his jawline, slowly. He can feel the skin of Mario’s face heating up, from arousal or embarrassment or both. “I like to call you boss.” His hands are still pressed to the wall behind him.

Roberto stops. “Oh,” he says. Then: “Mario, I want you to touch me.”

“Where, boss?” Mario asks, and Roberto runs a hand down his arm, links their fingers together so he can watch Mario close his eyes and try to control himself.

“Where do you want to?” he asks, stilling himself against Mario while he still can.

“Wherever you want me to, everywhere, boss. Just tell me,” Mario meets his eyes and Roberto knows that must have cost him. “Please.”

Roberto takes a step back, but leaves their fingers linked. “Is this. Do you,” know what you’re asking me, know what you’re trusting me with, know how badly this could end, “Mario, is that what you want?”

Mario nods. “I trust you, boss,” he says, his voice shaking and he isn’t reaching out for Roberto, isn’t touching himself. Roberto runs his thumb over Mario’s knuckles. He looks at Mario, up against the wall, his legs spread, his eyes wide. He would never have been arrogant to trust himself with this, with this man whose greatness is so obvious yet so elusive, who he would give his career for, who is barely moving, watching him, fear rising.

“For me to trust myself if I’m tying you up and fucking you, I need to know that when you say stop you mean stop,” Roberto’s voice sounds harsh to himself. Mario makes a ragged noise.

“Mario?” Roberto asks. 

Mario shuts his eyes for a moment and then opens them, his smiling reappearing, intoxicatingly shy and arrogant. “If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you to stop. Roberto Mancini,” and his eyes flash like he’s laughing, “I will tell you to stop.”

Roberto shakes his head, smiling. He tugs Mario forward and kisses him, since he hasn’t yet. Mario opens his mouth and lets him in, molds himself against Roberto. Roberto kisses him and kisses him, hard and messy. His chest feels tight, and his hands are light on the back of Mario’s neck, heavy on the small of his back as they pull Mario closer.

Mario’s shaking, and Roberto says, against his lips, “Don’t come yet.”

“Easier said than done, boss,” Mario says, unevenly.

Roberto steps back. “Get naked.”

“About that whole not coming thing,” Mario says, “these orders are not really conducive to -”

Roberto pauses on his way to his closet. “Don’t talk. Don’t come. Get naked. Am I not making myself clear, Mario?”

Mario gulps and nods. Roberto watches him pull off his shirt, throw it to the side. He sits down on the side of the bed, kicks off his shoes, undoes his belt. He has to stand again to pull his pants down. He’s obviously close; there’s a wet spot on the front of his briefs. Mario slides those off his hips as well, steps out of them. He’s beautiful, his skin seeming to glow in the mid-afternoon light. His eyes meet Roberto’s and his bites his lips, puts a hand around the base of his cock and squeezes. Roberto’s achingly hard, but he watches for just a second longer, tries to memorize the line of Mario’s back.

He goes to the closet and looks through his tie collection, like he’s getting dressed in the morning. He picks an old one, black silk, a gift from his ex-mother-in-law. It seems appropriate. It’s wide, no longer in fashion, he hasn’t worn it in years. He rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, idly. 

Mario is lying on his bed, watching him. Roberto walks back and sits down next to him, gets undressed carefully, pulling off his sweater, unbuttoning his shirt and folding it before putting it on the floor, shucking off his undershirt. He drops the tie next to Mario, then turns to take off his shoes, socks, pants. He wants to give Mario a chance to refuse. 

When he turns back, Mario’s eyes are locked on him, wide. He clears his throat.

“Boss,” he says. Roberto puts a finger to his lips and Mario rolls his eyes. He nods to Roberto, and makes an abortive gesture towards Roberto.

“You can,” Roberto tells him, and Mario pulls Roberto on top of him, kisses him, rubbing Roberto’s dick through his briefs with one hand, the other tangled Roberto’s hair. Roberto braces his hands on either side of Mario’s head and pushes himself up, so he’s sitting straddling Mario’s hips. 

“Turn over,” Roberto says, running a hand down Mario’s chest before getting off the bed to get a condom and lube out of his nightstand. Mario does, and Roberto can hear him panting. 

“On your knees, Mario,” Roberto says, gently, sitting next to him. He runs a hand over Mario’s head, kisses his temple. Roberto reaches forward and takes Mario’s hands. Mario starts, and Roberto can tell he’s fighting to stay still, so Roberto waits until Mario nods again. Roberto ties his wrists together with the tie, testing the knots. He kisses Mario’s fingers. “Is it too tight?” Roberto asks, and Mario shakes his head. He licks his lips, shakes his head. He mouths a word, maybe please. Roberto can’t take his hands off Mario, can’t even try to stop himself.

He moves behind Mario, takes off his underwear. Mario’s crouching in front of him, his knees pulled in under him, his head resting between his bound arms, almost like he’s resting between sets of planks during practice. 

Roberto opens the lube and squeezes it into his palm, carefully slicking his hands. He slides a finger into Mario, watching the muscles in Mario’s back tighten and then relax. He adds another, crocks them just to hear the choked off noise Mario makes. His thighs are shaking. Roberto adds a third finger. He grips Mario’s hip with his other hand, fighting to keep control of himself. Mario pushes back into his fingers, fucking himself, desperately. Roberto wonders for a second if he should tell Mario to beg, imagines it. He pulls out his fingers and decides against it.

“We have plenty of time,” he tells Mario, and himself. Mario whimpers. He hasn’t moved, his head is still down. He’s squeezing his fingers into fists, and Roberto can see the muscles in his forearms stand out as he pulls against the tie. 

Roberto slides on a condom. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” he asks. “How many times I’ve thought about you on your knees in the dressing room.” Mario gasps. “I hated myself for it.” He moves forward and pushes into Mario, as slowly as he can, his hands sliding over Mario’s back, up along his shoulders. Mario’s whole body is tense. Roberto reaches a hand forward to cup Mario’s cheek, fully inside Mario now, and Mario tries to kiss his fingers, his mouth open and panting. Roberto holds himself still, Mario tight around him. “I promise I won’t make you hate me for it, Mario,” he says, while he still can. Then he pulls himself back out and pushes back into Mario, fucking him rhythmically. He leans forward to kiss Mario’s back, covering Mario with his body. Mario’s shuddering now, and Roberto’s isn’t much better, whispering nonsense into Mario’s skin. 

Roberto speeds up, incrementally. Mario is flexing and unflexing his fingers, giving little uncontrolled moans. Suddenly, he stiffens, and his muscles spasm around Roberto’s cock. “You can come,” Roberto tells him, and reaches under Mario and gets a hand on Mario as Mario comes on Roberto’s hand.

Roberto doesn’t last much longer. Mario is pliable under him now, and Roberto can’t hold himself back, thrusts erratically, and comes, his blood roaring in his ears. 

When his head clears, he pulls out, ties off the condom and throws it in the trash. “Turn over,” he tells Mario, and Mario does. His stomach has smears of come on it. Roberto licks them off, his tongue tracing Mario’s abs. Mario’s cock twitches, and Roberto laughs. 

“You’re making me feel old,” he says, undoing the knots of his tie and throwing it aside. He takes Mario’s hands in his and flexes his fingers carefully, to make sure blood hasn’t pooled there. Mario’s still silent, watching him.

“Are you ok?” Roberto asks him. “You can tell me.”

Mario nods and then speaks. His voice is hoarse. “I’m good, boss.” He clears his throat. “Can we stay here for a while?”

Roberto nods, pulling a blanket over both of them. He rests his head on Mario’s chest, and Mario runs a hand through his hair. 

“Well,” Roberto says, goosebumps running down his spin as Mario gently massages his scalp, “that was a marginally more efficient strategy than spending two hundred million petrodollars to win the FA cup.”

“I am way better than the FA cup,” Mario says. “And the league.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Roberto tells him, yawning. 

“I don’t know,” Mario says, “I just got pretty lucky.” Roberto smacks Mario on the hip and Mario laughs, his whole body shaking, until Roberto can’t help but join in.

**Author's Note:**

> I am profoundly grateful to applegnat and acchikocchi for beta-ing for me; I could not have written this without their help. I would also like to thank the Guardian's Man City coverage, which has provided me with endless inspiration. With the exception of Mario soliciting a prostitute, every Mario-incident in this story is true.


End file.
